


Too Little, Too Late

by theoddling



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Death, Heavy Angst, Not A Fix-It, Post-Canon, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:07:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22605217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoddling/pseuds/theoddling
Summary: Destiny was a bitch sometimes, and clearly it wanted him to finally apologize for his cruel and largely untrue words.Geralt stumbles upon where Jaskier ended up after that day on the mountain. But it has been far longer than the Witcher thought, and Jaskier is only human.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 57





	Too Little, Too Late

**Author's Note:**

> Partially inspired by the wonderful cover of “Toss a Coin to your Witcher” by Karliene. Mostly inspired (as all my best angst seems to be) by a tumblr post (https://rocketbooties.tumblr.com/post/190673680522/late-night-angst), about Geralt forgetting how quickly regular humans age and what if…so this is kind of my answer to that.  
> (technically I wrote this before I had seen the breakup scene, but I knew about it because fuck avoiding spoilers honestly and I couldn’t wait to rub my grubby little angst-building hands all over it)

His eyes landed on the lute hanging above the bar, and he was instantly surprised by the wave of guilt and regret that struck him. He hadn’t thought about the bard or that day on the mountain in years, and suddenly it all came flooding back to him, and he sighed.  


Destiny was a bitch sometimes, and clearly it wanted him to finally apologize for his cruel and largely untrue words.  


“What brings you to the Gilded Dandelion?” the young woman smiled brightly at him, blue eyes shining and so familiar that Geralt felt a lump in his throat for a reason he couldn’t pin down.  


“That lute,” He grunted and she tilted her head in confusion.  


“Sorry what?”  


“I mean, it looks familiar. Who does it belong to?”  


“It’s just a lute. High quality, but still looks like any other lute.”  


“No. That design…its particular. Priceless.”  


“Priceless? That seems a bit extreme.”  


“An elven-made instrument is becoming rarer and rarer these days.”  


“Grandfather did always tell extravagant stories of where it came from. Elven-made?” she let out a low whistle. “I always thought he was lying.”  


‘Grandfather.’ The word rang in Geralt’s ears. She didn’t mean that…? No, Jaskier must have sold it to the innkeeper in order to pay off some debt, or make up for some indiscretion, he told himself.  


“Anyway,” she smiled, interrupting his thoughts. “Surely you didn’t come in because of a dusty old instrument? What do you need?”  


He remembered his original reasoning for coming in. “A room for the night. Stabling. Ale.”  


“Why don’t I add in a bath and food and make it the full package?” her tone was light and there was a mischievous glint in her eyes as she looked him over in his travel-worn clothing with just a hint of bloodstains from the last creature he’d faced.  


He grunted in assent and handed over the coins she asked for, surprisingly fewer than he’d expected.  


In return, she placed a room key and a drink on the counter. “I’ll have my sister come up with hot water in a few minutes and then you come down whenever you’re ready for dinner.”  


~  


Geralt watched the room from his place in the corner, an expectant tension settling on his shoulders but he didn’t know what for. And then suddenly he did, as the younger of the two women he’d met that night gently took the loot down from its place and gave it a gentle strum. The sound it made was as beautiful as ever (not that he had ever admitted his appreciation for it. Yet another thing to apologize for he supposed).  


As she moved through a lovely repertoire of ballads and the crowd hung on her every note, he found himself relaxing and enjoying the music. Her voice rung out over the applauding crowd after a particularly tragic tale of lost love.  


“This next one is an old song, from back when the world was truly full of monsters and men who hunted them. But there’s a guest here tonight who might like to hear it. Or maybe not, we’ll find out.”  


Her fingers danced gracefully over the strings and Geralt found himself focusing on them with a burning intensity as the first notes trilled.  


“When a humble bard, graced a ride along…”  


He rose, far more aggressively than he intended, the sound of his chair dragging across the floor drawing more than a few eyes from the crowd, and stormed up the stairs to his room. He wasn’t sure how long he’d sat and seethed and fretted in his room before a gentle knock drew his attention. Steeling himself, he opened the door to the young woman he’d first spoken to.  


“I told Mira not to sing that one,” she said, shrugging. “But she was insistent.”  


Geralt hmmed at her in response, annoyed as much at his own reaction to the stupid song as by her playing it.  


“It’s really you isn’t it?” she asked after a moment of silence, arms crossed and leaning against his door frame.  


He said nothing, but quirked an eyebrow in her direction.  


“I thought it might be. What are you doing here?”  


“Passing through.”  


“That’s it? You just happened to be passing through this town and stop at this inn, now of all times?”  


“I…” he frowned. “I don’t even keep track anymore of where I am or where I stop. All these little places seem the same.”  


“And what about the people? Long lifespan like yours we must blur together like drops of ink right?”  


He grunted again.  


“Do you even remember him, really?” her tone was both hurt and accusing.  


His jaw clenched. Of course he remembered Jaskier, when he thought about it. He just…never thought about it. It was easier not to.  


She huffed, taking his silence for an answer.  


“Goodnight Witcher,” there was a sharpness to her voice. “Breakfast starts at dawn.”  


~  


The next morning she set a small pouch down next to his plate of eggs and sausages.  


“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. Grandfather wouldn’t want us to turn out his best friend and most beloved muse, no matter how long it’s been.”  


She moved away from his table to attend her other duties before he could respond. He looked in the pouch and saw that it was the coin he had paid the night before. He sighed and stuck it into the bag at his waist.  


~  


He stayed for several days, guilt eating him for taking advantage of their hospitality, but also aware that he and Roach needed the rest. He kept to himself, and the innkeeper, Nicolede, seemed content to let him.  


The evening of the third day, the bard, Mira, approached him as he polished off the bowl of hearty venison stew that had been silently placed before him.  


“You’ve really pissed off Lede,” she cooed teasingly as she dropped into the chair across from him. “I’ve almost never seen her like this.”  


“I’ve done nothing,” he replied without looking up.  


“Uh yeah. That’s my point.”  


“What?”  


“You’ve been here for three days and you haven’t said a word about him. Our whole lives, songs about you were how we slept at night. You were the hero of every story Grandfather told, and not just monster-slaying adventures, stories about travelling with you and going places and seeing the world and how you were his best friend and he cared so much about you. There were times where it seemed like he loved you even more than he did Gran.”  


He finally glanced up at her, but she seemed unphased as she plowed ahead.  


“All of that about you from him, and yet when you show up here, at the inn he bought with coin he made from telling your tale and making sure you were remembered, after all this time, you have nothing to say. You ask about his lute, and then you book a room like a total stranger. You stay here for three days and never once try to know what happened after you parted ways, or ask to see him. It seems…cruel.”  


Geralt sighed. “I am not one for words.”  


“Yes, I’ve figured that out plenty easily.”  


“I…haven’t been able to work out what to say to him.” He looked down sheepishly. “I owe him an apology for a thousand things, including waiting this long and not realizing it.”  


“So you were afraid because he’d gotten old? Had a life and a family and grandchildren while you were off brooding and killing evil?” her tone had gone soft and his heart ached for how much it reminded him of Jaskier’s.  


He hesitated a moment before nodding, her words were truer than she could possibly have known. “Yes.”  


“Well then you’re an idiot.” She sighed. “Tomorrow morning. Come up and see him. Or else I’ll make sure you regret it for the rest of your days, follow you about nagging like a passive-aggressive vengeful spirit or something.”  


He smirked, a huff that was almost a laugh escaping his lips.  


~  


The next morning, Geralt’s chest felt oddly tight as he followed the stairs up another flight to where the family, where Jaskier, lived. He hesitated and then knocked gently on the door. A few moments passed and he was about to knock again when Mira answered.  


“Oh,” her voice was soft and scratchy, perhaps like she had just woken. “It’s you.”  


She stepped aside to let him in the door. He walked in to the little sitting room, having to duck through the low doorway, and looked around. The room was small but in a way that just added to its homeliness, brightly decorated and warm from the small fireplace.  


Suddenly, a hand connected with his face in a resounding smack that interrupted all other thoughts.  


“How dare you,” Nicolede growled at him. “How fucking dare you.”  


“Lede,” Mira protested, resting a hand on her elder sister’s shoulders. “He didn’t know. He couldn’t have. And I’m the one who told him to come.”  


Geralt was still trying to process the slap and the unadulterated hatred in the young woman’s familiar blue eyes and the coziness of the room that didn’t seem to make sense in contrast.  


“Get. Out.” She told him through gritted teeth.  


“Lede, that’s not fair,” her sister countered.  


“So what? We both know from the stories he never was either.”  


“Grandfather wouldn’t…” Mira sucked in a deep shuttering breath.  


It was then that Geralt registered the tear tracks on their faces, and the floor dropped out from beneath him.  


“He’s dead.” His voice cracked on the word and Mira nodded.  


“It must have been in the middle of the night,” she explained, staring anywhere but the faces of her sister or the witcher. “I’m sorry.”  


Geralt shook his head. “I am the only one who should be sorry.”  


Nicolede scoffed. “You’re damn right.”  


“I will…regret…for the rest of my life.” Geralt couldn’t bring himself to finish his thoughts, but the two women looked at him, into his soul, like they knew. They nodded. It wasn’t the person he wanted acknowledging his sorrow or regret, but it would have to do. He gave them a half bow as he backed out of the room, leaving them in peace to mourn.  


They found him later with his face pressed to Roach’s neck, whispering stories to her as if it was a lifeline. They said nothing when he looked at them with eyes of amber shining through puffed redness.  


He followed them to the graveyard when they buried him, lingered after to rest a hand on the headstone. With closed eyes, he could almost feel the bard’s hand on his shoulder in return.  


He left town the next morning before even the first streaks of sunlight passed the horizon. From the window, Mira watched him go, strumming softly on her grandfather’s lute, and from another higher up, unforgiving blue traced his path into the forest.

**Author's Note:**

> Oof. That ending feels unnecessarily ominous…Not sure what that's about.


End file.
